Obvious Things
by emedealer
Summary: A series of one shots that explore Sherlock and Molly's relationship. Ratings will vary throughout.
1. Rain

**Rain**

Walking Molly home from work had become a common thing, mostly occurring when the sky had grown dark after her shift. He was drawn to the task out of courtesy, out of some haphazard sense of protection. She never argued against it unless she felt that he was inconvenienced by it.

Sometimes he took her up on the offer and separated from her on their way back, thinking she wanted him gone. He always regretted leaving her, sending off an affirming text, annoyed with himself for doing so. The subject matter never made a difference, as her reply only served to confirm that she had made it safely back to her flat.

He would occupy himself with other things then, still unable to shake the thought that weighed heavily in the back of his mind.

It was her. Always _her._

He hated himself for it, mulling over a thousand other things when the only thing he wished for was her presence. She would unwittingly give it if he asked it of her, and he considered it too. He had even taken up his phone, writing out an excuse for her to come – but closed out of it in the end.

Not the right time, he reasoned.

And then there were other days, when the outcome of his walking her home would be entirely different.

He would take her up to her doorstep, with her bringing him inside for a cup of tea. And that's all it was, really.

There was something different about being in her home, listening to her speak. He thought back to how he had once only tolerated her voice in the lab, and sometimes not even that.

This – _this _was unjustifiable, something that tore at him often. But the memory seemed to float away from him, as they would slip into conversation – and how easy it was to do so with her!

He never asked to be listened to, and yet when he got into a passion about his work, flinging out the source of his deductions, the aspects of each case - Molly would listen, she would contribute her thoughts.

When Baker Street was occupied by a woman named Janine, Sherlock didn't spare a second thought in asking Molly if he could make use of her bedroom.

At first, she had blanched - practically spluttering as she had been sipping her coffee when he'd thrown out the request.

Maybe he hadn't worded it right, feeling like an idiot for asking at all. His regret turned to surprise though, when she agreed with a quietly spoken; "Okay."

He hadn't expected her to share the bed, watching as she climbed in beside him with such normality, as though it happened every night.

They agreed that he needed the space, but he should have expected that she wouldn't let herself be pushed out of her own bedroom. The thought briefly made the corner of his mouth twitch upward, before he was deep in his mind palace again, finally able to think properly in the clear atmosphere.

In the end, they both slept.

He woke in the morning, staring at the hand that rested on the curve of her hip. He hadn't dared touch her the night before, but in sleep his hand had found her, still.

He wondered what he wanted of her, if anything.

Of what they were to each other, he hadn't the slightest idea. She seemed to be another question that he couldn't seek out an answer to, unless he took another step, a deeper _risk. _

He was walking with her again, the two of them watching the sky between the buildings. It was grey with clouds, cool wind shook the leaves in the trees, and a deep roll of thunder sounded distantly over the city of smoke.

They had yet to share a word, and he wondered if she too was suffering through questions, if she found him lacking because if his silence.

The rain came in drops at first, and then in streams, soaking them through as they decidedly broke into a run, unable to hold back their laughter through the last few blocks to her flat.

Molly had fumbled with the key before they came panting through her doorway and out of the rain, soon shedding their coats that dripped rain water onto the carpet.

She let out a burst of giggles as she caught her breath, grinning at his sodden appearance. Curls were matted over his forehead, as he made a mock-serious effort to look put out, which only made her laugh more.

The atmosphere changed when he came nearer to her, his expression serious as he eagerly sought out her mouth, soon feeling the tense in her body fade and her smile against his lips. The kiss was slower before they finally broke apart, gasping for air.

The raindrops still clung to her eyelashes, with her making no effort to blink them away as she stared, perfectly - wondrously, happy.


	2. Perception

_A/N: In a universe where Sherlock does take Molly out for fish and chips after their crime solving *cough* date *cough*_

* * *

**Perception**

_"Fancy some chips?"_

_"What?"_

_"I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone road. The owner always gives me extra portions."_

_"Did you get him off a murder charge?"_

_"No. I helped him put up some shelves."_

* * *

The shop was just as Sherlock had described it to her; small, quaint, with warm lights and soft music that played just over the voices of the people that talked comfortably within it. The aroma that hung about them was sweet, and the lit fireplace in the corner eagerly welcomed after the walk it had taken to get there – making their way in the freezing wind.

It was the last place that she would have expected Sherlock to frequent, but he eyed the room with familiarity, a relaxed expression settling over his face as he took in the sight.

He led her to a booth that sat adjacent to a window, with her taking the seat opposite his. Molly watched him look about the room with admiration, and she assumed, with the comment about the owner, that there might be memories associated with the shop, maybe old friendships.

His gaze flitted to hers, obviously becoming aware of her silent assessment of him, and she quickly looked elsewhere.

A young brunette waitress approached their table, and Sherlock promptly gave his order without a sideways glance. The girl couldn't have been more than seventeen, blinking before she scribbled it on a notepad, clearly intimidated by the man.

Molly resonated with her, having shared a similar feeling, and noted the furrow in Sherlock's brow when she only asked for a tea.

He didn't say anything of it though, and resolved to look out into the street, with Molly following his eyes. The city buildings were turning blue as the darkness came on, and people rushed passed, eager to be out of the frigid weather.

"Ordinary people think the world is a mundane place," He said, gaze trained on the outside as his fingertips tapped restlessly on the surface of the table. "when it's so full of incredible instances if one is willing to seek them out."

"Yes." She quietly agreed, watching a young couple hastily make their way down the pavement in their coats, each clinging to the other excitedly. The sight of them made her wonder why she had accepted his statement so blindly – and what a broad statement it was!

"Although," She continued, "it _is_ your job to do that – to seek out the incredible instances…"

His eyes darted back to hers at this, having noted the contradiction in her words.

"What is it that you think I do, Molly?"

She met his hard gaze, and for a moment it almost stole her breath. The inquisitive look seemed to be one that he saved for his enemies, or perhaps those whose opinions were taken into account. She earnestly hoped for the latter, having felt that the day they'd just spent together wasn't for nothing. His desire for her presence had meant the world to her, and she did not wish to ruin it.

"You look for the extraordinary in the ordinary." She answered, and immediately the ice was gone from his eyes.

"Exactly." He quietly affirmed.

"But you've just generalized 'people' as ordinary."

"Ah, but-" Sherlock began an explanation, but Molly's curiosity got the best of her, and she couldn't let him finish.

"Why do you do that?" She interrupted him, feeling the frustration rise in her voice.

"Because _people_ aren't generally interesting beings. Most of them lead dull lives." He pressed, with pure belief in his words.

"How would you know?"

Her question had prompted a memory in him, and she saw it flit through his mind, the way his eyes became dark with the remembrance of something – _something._

"You know my methods, Molly." He said, pushing the thought away.

"No, that's not right." She looked down to her lap, shaking her head.

"I don't follow."

"You might look at a person and think their being wasteful with their life, when they could be perfectly happy."

"No one is perfectly happy." He said, catching her eyes again.

"One person can't feel that way all the time. But in certain moments…" She prompted, trying to harbor understanding in him.

"What moments?"

She saw that his fascination was piqued, which sprung up delight in her heart, even with the heaviness of the subject matter. Pressing forward, she said;

"I guess for you, it would be after you solve a case. Isn't there a sense of accomplishment that goes with that?"

"Accomplishment never amounted to happiness."

His eyes were hard when he said the words, insinuating that he fully believed them as well. She had heard the subtle ache in his voice, and didn't know how to respond.

"What makes you happy?" She asked after a moment.

The question hung in the air, and Sherlock was watching her before his gaze fell, and he was deep in thought.

"I don't know." He finally resolved to say, unable to meet her eyes from the shame of it.

"There must be something." She earnestly prompted, wishing to hold his hand that rested on the table.

"Why?" He drew his hand away when he asked it.

"It would be pointless." She said, staring at the place that his hand had been.

"What would be pointless?" He asked her, and she looked up to see that his eyes had closed.

"Life, I suppose."

* * *

They had left the fish shop, and Sherlock was walking alongside her. The streets had become dark, save for the lamps that lit the pavement.

Their conversation had lightened after she had finished, but there had been a pertinent air hanging about them - things that they had both wished to say, but hadn't. And they hadn't spoken a word since leaving the place.

"I disagree." Sherlock suddenly stated as they walked on.

"What?" She didn't know what he was speaking of.

"I disagree with what you said – about happiness."

"Okay…"

"Life isn't pointless without it." He persisted to say, earnestly seeking out her expression. "It's not about being happy in the moment, but knowing that one day I can feel that way – that's what gives it meaning, you see."

They had stopped walking, and Sherlock was stood in front of her, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement. But her expression was of confusion, as she stood wondering what had brought on this epiphany, or if it had been suppressed inside him since she had spoken her mind.

"Do you feel that way?" She wondered, and realized she had asked it aloud.

"I did today." he said, a hint of a smile on his lips.


	3. Kissing

_A/N: This is a (tiny) drabble I posted on tumblr earlier because my schedule has me waking up at ungodly hours and taking naps in the afternoon. Luckily all of that is over in a week or so, and I'll properly gather my thoughts and be able to write something with a semblance of a plot. (maybe)_

**Kissing**

His fingers were leaving little trails on her knuckles, until it slid over the hand, feeling for a pulse at the wrist. The touch was slight and deft, and he hadn't intended to wake her.

But she was quietly pulled out of sleep, and assumed that he wasn't aware of it, as his thumb was still drawing slow circles over the blue veins under her skin.

His gaze was soft on her hand, and she remained still.

It was when her pulse quickened under his fingers that his eyes darted up to her face, and he was surprised to find her awake. He visibly swallowed, and didn't say a word.

"Sherlock," Molly whispered.

His eyes fell to her lips, lingering there for the moment. He seemed unable to decide what he wanted, or whether he wanted anything at all.

She stared in awe when he seemed to lean closer to her, his breath mingling with hers.

He brought his lips to hers in a kiss, pressing in slowly, keeping it chaste. It was short lived, with him pulling back after a moment, their lips barely touching.

The whole action had been a question from him, and she saw it lingering in his piercing gaze, his expression serious.

She was kissing him, with slow and fervent nips against his mouth. He responded with his hands on her hips, pulling her closer until she was on his sat on his lap.

Her arms were around his neck, and he paused in his movements, causing her to pull away from his lips. His eyes opened briefly, and through the flame of admiration, she saw that his original intent had been innocent.

He stared up at her, with a hand sliding up her back. With an intake of breath he pulled her back to his mouth, and soon opened to her.

She pressed her palms to his chest, gently pushing so that his back was on the sofa. His hands remained at her back, pulling her down to meet his lips again and again. Their breathing was taxed when they finally separated

His hands were trembling, and his chest heaved against hers.

"Are you alright?" Molly asked with a hand on his cheek. His eyes closed when she touched his face, with him letting out an exhale.

"Yes." He whispered, and slowly brought her into his arms for support. His hands were splayed on her back, with his face buried in the juncture of her neck.

"Yes." He repeated with a swift kiss.


	4. Revelations

_A/N: Post-Reichenbach. As if that sort of thing hasn't already been done 12 million times._

**Revelations**

The city itself seemed to swell up with new life in the spring, with the trees dripping exuberant leaves from the branches. The grey sky was turning blue with thickening sunbeams that streamed through the massive white clouds, sailing west overhead. In the full light of the day, Hyde park was in bloom, as the budding flowers had finally opened, allowing the air to touch their petals.

Even if the pavement wasn't as thick with people as it would often be with the flood of tourists in the summer months, there were more out and about walking than Molly Hooper had expected. The park had been relatively empty for a number of weeks, due to the frigid weather - which hadn't loosened its grip until that time of year.

John Watson occupied the stone bench as well, sipping coffee from the paper cup at his lips. He had asked her once, if she would meet him there. He was in need of someone. She knew - everyone knew who it was that he needed. But he settled for a mutual friend, and to her own misfortune, one that knew the secret.

"You were too tolerant of the way he treated you." He exhaled, as though it was an after-thought. He wasn't looking at her, with his eyes on the very tips of the houses of parliament, which peaked over the top of the trees, partially obscured by the glare of a rising sun.

He did a double take in her direction after a moment, realizing what had actually escaped his mouth.

"Not that…" He tried to recover himself, "Not that you were a weak person."

"It's fine." She admonished quietly, with her eyes cast downward.

"Honestly though, I was amazed that you let it go on so long without bashing his head in." He encouraged with a laugh, which made her smile despite herself.

"What about Christmas?" She asked, mock-seriously, sipping her coffee.

He laughed harder at that, as though the memory were something to think fondly about.

"Right. I'm still _thoroughly_ impressed by that." John grinned as he swung his head back to have the last remnants of the drink, before tossing the cup into the bin.

"Sherlock was too, you know." He added with a small yawn. "Couldn't shut up about you, really."

"What?" She blurted, practically spluttering. The coffee tasted bitter after that, and she resolved not to drink it, as it had grown cold anyway.

"You really caught his attention." John went on. "He mentioned you more after Christmas."

"Ah."

"You practically forced an apology out of him. _Him_." John stressed the word, as though it had been some impossible feat. She tried ignoring the implications, and yet knew doubtlessly that she would come back to it in the end.

"How… when did he bring me up?" She wondered if John was making a joke out of spite. Maybe anger. He had every reason to be angry, she supposed.

"You'd be surprised." He finally said, and was quiet again.

Why wouldn't he elaborate?

"I think," He began slowly, "I think now is as good a time as ever to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

He remained silent, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, sliding a hand over his face with long suffering sigh.

"John?" She uttered after a full minute, watching the cogs turn in his head. She pitied him, and wondered if this was why he'd asked her to come.

"Alright." He started, firmly staring ahead, "So there was one day, a few months after new years eve - just sort of a normal afternoon…" He trailed off, looking up at her. "God, I don't think I should be telling you this."

"Why?" She whispered, gaping at him.

John shook his head, regaining himself.

"He's dead, so I don't see why I should keep it from you." He sighed bitterly, looking elsewhere.

"There hadn't been any cases that week, if I remember right. He hadn't put down the bloody violin for days, it seemed like. I hadn't heard a word out of him."

"And?"

"He locked himself away in his room for hours, and so I went to check on him. I'd only just asked if he was alright. Do you want to know what he said to me?"

"What did he say?"

"He told me he loved you."


	5. Christmas

_A/N: So it's been about a hundred years since I've updated this, and it's probably crap, but what can you do. Also this is a christmas fic just in time for the holidays that don't begin for a few more months. :D I've been pretty MIA in the sherlolly scene for a while, but anyway here's wonderwall. Love you guys._

* * *

**Christmas**

There were two things that Mrs. Holmes couldn't stand.

One being people who lacked holiday spirit, and and the other being people who tolerated either of her son's blunt rudeness.

She had tried (with minimal success) while raising them to scratch whatever itch it was that caused them to be so cold with their classmates, but it was only Mycroft who seemed to be able to put a lid on his stark comments, save for the ones aimed towards his younger brother.

It was Sherlock who couldn't put a handle on his own mouth, and there was no evidence to say that he particularly wanted to, especially when it came to the ones he'd grown close to without even realizing it.

The man always scoffed when she would mention his budding relationships, and the stories in the news only served to solidify her suspicions that her boy had found friendship in more than one person.

She had to see it for herself.

This is what led Mrs. Holmes to find herself and her husband seated in her younger son's flat on a snowy afternoon very late in December.

At the sight of the state of undress that his flat was in for Christmas, she had personally taken it upon herself to scold her son into a corner about the importance of festivity of the season, and that she had raised him better than to have a living room without a Christmas tree during the last month of the year, at least.

She put a stop for every argument and pointed rebuttal that he threw back at her, talking down to him despite their height difference and his obvious potential to intimidate.

In the end he gave up, begrudgingly agreeing to decorate on the condition that he could call for help.

"The more the merrier!" Mr. Holmes said from his spot on the sofa, grinning when his wife beamed at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes resentfully as he pulled out his phone and went to hide in the kitchen while his mother began envisioning her own ideas about his flat, his father listening with half an ear.

He was on the verge of panicking.

"Molly," he hissed quietly into the receiver when a small voice answered on the other end.

"Sherlock?" She asked, worry rising in her voice, "What's wrong?"

The man swallowed, trying to calm his nerves. "I need your help."

…

Ten minutes later, Molly stood in the doorway to his flat, her lab coat hanging off one shoulder and her cheeks flushed from the freezing temperatures outside mixed with the exertion it took to make it there so quickly.

"Ah, Molly." Sherlock acknowledged casually, standing from his chair as he buttoned his suit jacket.

He stopped when he saw her panting against the door frame. He furrowed his brows, glancing down at his watch. "You got here fast."

Molly was taking in the scene with her eyes, noticing that nothing was amiss besides the old couple seated in the living room, who were staring widely at the new visitor.

"Oh, dear do you think this could be the one from the hospital?" Mrs. Holmes whispered to her husband with a hand on his knee.

"Ah yes, the blog girl." He agreed, appraising her with his wife.

Molly's eyebrows knitted at that, and she met Sherlock's gaze with a singular question.

The likes of which, blew completely over his head.

"Well you're here, so we'd best begin." he said, turning to straighten himself in the mirror over the mantel.

"What?"

"I've stored a few things from last year in John's old room, so I suggest we start there-"

"Sherlock,"

He turned to face her at the interruption, finding himself being glared at by a pair of brown eyes that were entirely too endearing to be threatening, and yet at the same time he knew the woman would likely tear him apart if she wanted to.

"...Unless you have a better idea, which you probably don't, seeing as it's my flat we're decorating."

Molly held his gaze in utter disbelief for a few moments before letting out a sigh, closing her eyes as she lost the tension in her shoulders.

"I thought something happened," she said, shrugging out of her snow drenched lab coat, which usually meant that he was forgiven.

Sherlock's lips turned up that the corner when she grinned at him, shaking her head in amused exasperation.

Definitely forgiven, he thought.

…

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes didn't have to do a thing.

They were perfectly content with watching their son trail down the stairs with the small boxed up tree and his intriguing young friend following after with the one box of decorations he did have, surprising as it was.

"Molly let me," he insisted, reaching out for the box when he'd dropped the tree in the living room.

"I've got it," she said, walking past his open arms.

The old couple chanced a grin at each other when they saw their son's dejected expression, his turned up nose sniffing once in annoyance.

They knew the young woman hadn't meant anything by it, as she had actually been delighted at the idea of decorating, but it was like Sherlock to be offended by unimportant things, and completely passive to everything else.

He seemed to take it in his stride after a moment, joining her as she knelt on the floor and rummaged through the box.

The sight of their son sitting on the floor with a friend so easily was one that the his parent's had seen very little of while raising him, and so it came as a shock to them both when the man became so immersed in the activity he'd sworn a thousand times over never to do.

The young woman had a quality about her that clearly comforted him to some extent.

"Sherlock,"

"Hm?"

"Is this you?"

His eyes shot up to her at once.

Molly was stifling a grin at the ornament she'd pulled from the box. It was the photo framed with tiny Christmas trees.

"Oh, Sherlock is that the one you and Mikey?" Mrs. Holmes piped up from the other side of the room.

The man snatched the photo from Molly's fingers while she tried to subdue a quiet laugh that kept bubbling over.

Him and Mycroft were indeed seated on either one of a exasperated looking Santa's knees. What obviously kept Molly giggling was how the very young version of him was gazing in awe at who he'd thought was actually Father Christmas while Mycroft was clearly bored out of his own mind, glaring somewhere off to the side where his parent's had probably been standing at the time, or more likely doubling over in laughter at the sight.

"Why the hell do I have this," He murmured, tossing it back into the box. He barely caught a glimpse of the knowing smile that played at Molly's lips before it disappeared again when her eyes flitted downwards.

It bothered him that she did that so often.

"Molly dear," he watched her eyes turn brightly to his father, who had spoken out very little since he'd arrived. "has Sherlock ever told you about the time he fell through the ice on the lake near our home?"

"Dad,"

"Siger, you don't need to bring that up." Mrs. Holmes chided, smacking his knee playfully. Her voice had a cold stiffness about it though, that led Molly to think that the memory wasn't a happy one.

"No, I don't believe he has," she answered truthfully, the volume dropping out of her voice as she turned to meet his gaze.

The man's eyes briefly flicked from his father to her before he promptly stood up, making his way over to the misshapen tree that lay near the fireplace, surrounded by a fake pine needles that had come loose with unpacking.

Her heart broke a bit when she saw the guilty expression on his father's face, with his wife rubbing his arm for support.

…

The atmosphere was quiet while they fluffed the tree, and it had been for a while, seeing as it was no quick task.

"My dad used to take me and mom into town every Christmas." She began, timid to break the silence.

Sherlock's parents seemed to liven at that.

"He always let me pick the tree." She grinned at a memory. "I remember one year, I picked a tree so big that it wouldn't fit in our house when we brought it back-"

"Stop talking, Molly." Sherlock suddenly bit out, and she closed her mouth at the venom in his voice.

There was a beat.

Molly, although completely shocked by his outburst, didn't miss how quickly Mr. Holmes stood up from the sofa and crossed the room, gripping his equally stunned son by the arm with surprising strength to pull him into the other room.

She blinked the door after it shut with a loud click.

Molly spoke before Mrs. Holmes could apologize for her son.

"He's not always like this," She quickly defended, although she didn't really know why.

Mrs. Holmes, still appalled at her son's behavior, gave her a piercing glare with her eyes.

He had his mother's blue eyes, she noticed offhandedly.

"That's no reason to let him speak to you that way." She huffed, with her voice cracking a bit. "You can't ever let him do that."

"I don't." Molly quickly assured. She wrung her hands together as she stepped closer to the upset woman, trying to think of how to appease her worry.

She smiled inwardly at a memory, even if it was one that she'd rather not revisit.

"Has he ever told you that I've slapped him for saying things like that to me? They were worse things, but I did fight back."

The old woman, after a bit of deep thinking, seemed to brighten up. Molly wanted to laugh at the joy in her expression at the thought of her son being hit in the face for saying nasty things, but she thought it best not to.

Silence followed, which became tense very quickly. Mrs. Holmes had become quiet, staring fixedly into her lap where her hands were folded.

Molly didn't know what to say, so she continued to fluff the tree despite the heavy air in the room. She heard muffled voices from behind the door, but she couldn't make out a word of what was being said.

"You're good for him," Mrs. Holmes acknowledged.

Molly blinked at the woman, feeling the heat rise in her face before she went back to her task to escape the mother's earnest expression.

"We're not-"

"I know." Mrs. Holmes said, smiling a bit despite the atmosphere.

…

"It won't happen again," Sherlock said with finality, finished with the string of chastising statements.

His father sighed, folding his arms. The man was rarely this serious about anything.

"This is the same girl, right?" He asked, meeting his son's eyes. "The one you told me about?"

"Yes,"

"You seemed so fond of her,"

"I know."

"Don't tell me that's changed," Siger warned, furrowing his brows in what was supposed to be a threatening manner.

"It hasn't."

"Then what are you wasting your chance for, talking to her like that?"

Sherlock's jaw twitched and he looked elsewhere. The man had barely heard the worst of it.

"I don't know," he said.

…

Molly was wrapping the tree in lights when the two men emerged from the room, and she did her best to act as though nothing had happened.

She'd already forgiven him, as she always seemed to do too easily. But she had never been one to hold a grudge over anyone's head.

She stiffened when she felt a hand rest lightly on her shoulder, and turned to see Mr. Holmes nod to her once in an apology before he went to join his wife again, comforting her this time.

Sherlock stood by her side and helped with the string of lights, but he couldn't meet her eyes.

…

There was a loud gasp of excitement from Mrs. Holmes when they finally lit the tree, as it brightened the entire room.

It wasn't really courage that caused Molly to reach for the man's hand, only catching a few of his fingers in her grasp before his eyes flitted upwards to meet hers.

She couldn't stop the smile from turning up her lips at the astonishment that crossed his expression, and she didn't expect the grin she received in return, which, in her opinion, lit up the room more than the tree did.


End file.
